TS; (almost) DI

I had started going to the gym and I went for a while and then decided I'd rather sit home and drink and write and wallow and be a fucking idiot.

Things were going well.

I spoke to Holly and sometimes Sacha and sometimes Samira and sometimes Amy and sometimes anyone who'd be willing to offer an ear and a pleasantry and a free drink.

Everything was fine.

I kept finding bruises and didn't remember knocking into anything and I shit blood or wine for two days, but it stopped so I didn't worry about it.

I kept thinking I was going back to the gym. Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Never tomorrow. All tomorrows were filled with clay in my lungs and bruises on my skin and static in my head and I kept losing weight.

There were moments of light and there was occasionally a sense of hope, but always in one casual flash of maturity I could vanish them and there was no purpose for pretending or fairy tales or optimism. Optimism had become assuming that I would probably keep waking up and that notion sat stark and probable in me. I probably fucking would. It would be just my luck.

"Eat citrus," Sacha would say.

"Come visit me," Samira would say.

"You're a good dude," Holly would say.

And they all said "fuck her," as if that meant a goddamned thing.

There was no issue there anymore, so far as I could tell or admit. There was no anger. No sadness. Nothing. I was no longer hurt, only devoid and I began to wonder if I had built my life around this meaningless lynchpin, and once removed, my purpose with it. Or my idea of purpose.

"Fuck some people," Holly would say.

"Hang out with me," Samira would say.

"Eat citrus," Sacha would say.

And they all said "it'll get better," as if that meant a goddamned thing.

I sat at my desk. Stared at the wall, and couldn't give a damn about better.

Everything was fine.

Everything was fine.